The football World Cup is over and the leaden-footed like us can finally take a breather. While the World Cup was on, we moved around in trepidation lest we were caught unawares saying that Ronaldinho’s reverse swing was better than Zidane’s wrong one. But maybe the faux pas would have been forgiven, what with the world enraptured by the febrile imagination of a game comprising lusty kicks and even lustier shoves, just to get at a ball.
Things were further helped by the marketing mercenaries, who told all and sundry that this was the Game of All Games. Many, of course, were taken in by this spiel and promptly spent their hard-earned money on team jerseys and at expensive pubs, guzzling beer and cheering away till kingdom come, or till their favourite team’s exit.
It seemed for a while that we would finally make the resolve to shed those extra ounces, moonwalk our way out of the league of the also-rans and enter the bastion of football stardom. Cricket, meanwhile, would be relegated to the bylanes of hick towns, patronised by those who still hung on to the colonial import. Hurrah and three cheers for free kicking optimism.
But not all the teeming millions of this country would believe so. Venture out of your home any afternoon and scout the neighbouring fields. You will see people playing cricket and not football. Neither the heat nor the dust of north India can deter those who seem caught in a time warp and believe Deutschland is just another tongue twister. Watch them as they shout in exasperation at a careless fielder, exult over a beautifully executed dive, or exhort the last batsmen to save the day.
{{/usCountry}}But not all the teeming millions of this country would believe so. Venture out of your home any afternoon and scout the neighbouring fields. You will see people playing cricket and not football. Neither the heat nor the dust of north India can deter those who seem caught in a time warp and believe Deutschland is just another tongue twister. Watch them as they shout in exasperation at a careless fielder, exult over a beautifully executed dive, or exhort the last batsmen to save the day.
{{/usCountry}}When the day is over and they mop their foreheads beneath the shade, they will discuss the magnificent catch or the cross batted swipe that sent the ball soaring towards the neighbour’s window and missed it by a whisker, while the nubile aunty skipped a heartbeat, anticipating the crash of shattered glass. Then some audacious fellow will mention football and be rendered a pariah till he makes amends by playing water boy.
This is the inconceivable madness of these fellows, who are loathe to run around in knickers for 90 minutes; they would rather pad up like gentlemen in flannels and rent the Caribbean air with perfect cuts and the song of a long-awaited Indian victory.